Entries Tagged 'flavors' ↓

Crazy Eights, one of the films in After Dark's second Horrorfest lineup, is one of those films that, when it's over, you sort of shrug and say, "Umm...yup. Okay, so I just watched that." See, Crazy Eights is firmly planted in horror movie purgatory: neither good nor particularly terrible, it's just sort of there. It inspires no emotions in the viewer of any kind, and at the end of the 90 minutes you spend with it, you promptly forget about it and go about tending to your Olivia Newton-John scrapbook.

I'm not necessarily saying that I have an Olivia Newton-John scrapbook, mind you, but I almost did. When I was a wee one in that heady year known as "1980"- yeah, when Xanadu hit, ON-J fever was at its height (for me), and the world couldn't get enough of her musical collaborations with E.L.O. (at least, I couldn't), I somehow got it in my head that making an Olivia Newton-John scrapbook and selling it would be the greatest moneymaking scheme in the history of ever. I have no idea who I thought would buy it, or why I thought someone would actually pay big money for an Olivia Newton-John scrapbook, but I promptly set about cutting out every magazine article I could find about her and scotch taping them inside a notebook. Perhaps I sensed that I was on a fool's errand, or perhaps my love for Xanadu waned too quickly- whatever the reason, I dropped the project in but a few days. Had I kept at it, I wonder how much it would have brought at, say, Sotheby's (surely they would have auctioned it off for me); would I be a millionairess right now, wearing a monocle and acting indignant when some rube has the nerve to call Polaner All Fruit "jelly"? That seems likely.

I don't know why I'm thinking about all this...wait, yes I do! It's because there's not much to think about in Crazy Eights. However, this blog is called Final Girl, not Let Me Bore You With Stupid Pointless Stories From My Youth (though that's catchy), so I need to get to the horror.

After 20 years apart, a group of friends reunites when one of their mutual childhood buddies passes away. In his will, he requests that the group dig up a time capsule they buried together and...I don't know, spend some quality time together or something.

They find the trunk, and beneath the slingshots and other things left behind they find the skeletal remains of a young girl. Oops! Forgot about her!

Through a series of plot contrivances, they end trapped in an abandoned secret hospital, where they're stalked by the ghost of the dead girl as they try to piece together their shared history. When they were children, they were subjected to a series of behavioral studies that left them all plagued with nightmares and at differing levels of functionality as adults.

It's an interesting- if familiar- set up, and the cast assembled here is fairly impressive, including Frank Whaley, Gabrielle Anwar, Dina Meyer, and Traci fucking Lords. Unfortunately, they're squandered, hampered by a weak script that doesn't flesh out any personalities or histories. In the end, we don't care whether any of them live or die because we don't know any of them. This should have been horror touched with a tinge of tragedy, but there's none of either. Still, there's always something great about seeing Traci Lords in mainstream movies, so watching her get chased by a vengeful ghost is nothing short of awesome, even though it kinda sucks.

There are some huge issues with the plot- the characters make enormous leaps of logic as they figure out how to get out of their dilemma, while the audience is left shaking their heads. The events of the film happen rather quickly, but very little of the time is spent with the characters trying to physically find a way out of the hospital. All in all, it's a head-scratcher.

Most bizarre, though, is that director James Jones doesn't seem to know how to handle horror action. Thing happen and characters die, but we're always cutting away just before the violence begins and coming back a moment after it's over. I'd blame the lack of FX on budget constraints, maybe, but Crazy Eights must have cost a few pennies- although maybe it was all spent on the cast? Eh, who knows. The point is, we're never shown much of anything- to the point where scenes frequently feel disjointed.

As I said, it wasn't terrible, but it also wasn't very good...and it's a shame to see the likable cast all but wasted. I mean, Traci Lords, man!

To be honest, the highlight of this movie was the bonus featurette that compiles the webisodes from the Miss Horrorfest 2007 competition. Like some reality show set in Hot Topic, the Top 10 finalists were gathered together to compete for the dubious honor of winning the crown. The best part of the whole affair was watching Shannon Lark try to maintain interest while she was clearly appalled to find herself stuck in the middle of some goth-flavored hooker convention. She's awesome!

I put off viewing the 2007 Korean film Black House (Geomeun jip) because I'd been completely judging the book DVD by the cover. The photo and copy on the sleeve of the disc make it out to be yet another in a long line of Asian ghost stories, and lawd oh lawd...those taglines: "There's no place like home...TO DIE!" and "The address where DEATH lives!" Really, they sound as if they're straight outta one of my goofy Ghostella movies. I finally decided to give it a go, however, and once again I've been taught the lesson that just won't stick: don't judge a something by the something something. Black House is a terrific slow-burning thriller-slasher flick with nary a ghost in sight.

Jeon Jun-oh (Jeong-min Hwang) is a mild-mannered investigator for a large insurance company, far too personable and kind for the job. His bosses must repeatedly remind him that he needs to maintain a businesslike detachment and not get involved in the lives of clients; Jun-oh can't help himself, however, and even goes so far as to divulge personal information to a caller he feels is suicidal.

Jun-oh's reputation as a the nice guy of the agency leads to his being requested at the forbidding home of Park Chung-bae (Shin-il Kang), who's tired of dealing with nasty agents.

Shortly after he arrives, Jun-oh finds Chung-bae's young son hanging from a noose in his bedroom. Chung-bae's odd behavior leads Jun-oh to suspect that it's not suicide, but homicide- and he doesn't want to award a large monetary settlement to a murderer. The police are reticent to investigate, but not so Jun-oh; horrified at the notion that anyone would kill a child for financial gain, he sets out to expose Chung-bae- who in turn hounds Jun-oh and his agency for his payout.

Jun-oh becomes embroiled deeper and deeper in his investigation, which stirs up painful memories of his own troubled past (which includes the death of a younger brother) and puts a strain personal relationships. As Chung-bae's history comes to light, it becomes evident that this may not be the first time he's killed, and Jun-oh becomes fearful for Chung-bae's wife Shin Yi-hwa (Yoo Se-on)- after all, the policy on her life is quite large.

Things are not at all like they seem, though, and at the hour mark Black House takes a sharp left turn into Wackadooville. The pace and action increase, and the film becomes a slasher-flavored glimpse into the nature of evil. The cruel secrets buried in the basement of Park Chung-bae are revealed, and they're decidedly bloody.

Black House suffers a bit from the plague of multiple endings- just when you think it's over, there's more. Still, it was extremely enjoyable right up until the credits finally started rolling. The slow build of the first hour may be off-putting to fans with short attention spans, but I found the slow-burn approach refreshing and welcome. The film features- GASP!- actual character development bolstered by strong performances. The villain of the piece is so soulless and empty, even Michael Myers would be aghast.

There's just enough torture-tinged gore to make you squirm, but it's not so overdone as to be off-putting. The film is slick and stylish, but never in a way that sacrifices story: there's no frenetic editing here. The score is subtle and haunting.

This isn't the haunted house movie you'd expect from the packaging, but it is about the evil that lives next door. I was pleasantly surprised and extremely glad I gave Black House a shot...and I'm sure there's a lesson in there somewhere.

Way over yonder by The Old Horror Blips Place, there's a Carpenter flavored Michael Myers vs Zombie flavored Michael Myers smackdown taking place. Well, I suppose it's not really a smackdown as much as it is a few horror bloggers weighing in with their opinions about which incarnation of the Shatner-faced boogeyman is the scariest. Click and read to find out what I think...and what, among others, B-Sol of The Vault of Horror and BC of Horror Movie a Day think. The results aren't terribly surprising, but still.

In related news, between "B-Sol", "BC", and "BJ-C" of Day of the Woman, I feel that "Stacie Ponder" simply isn't snazzy enough. Mayhaps "S-Po"? That kind of rolls off the tongue. Anyway, enough of my identity problems. Let's get on with...THE POLLENING.

Which Myers do YOU prefer? Yes, you.

Carpenter-flavored

Zombie-flavored

Cynthia-flavored

Your mom-flavored

Sorry, I've never actually seen a picture of your mom...I'm just making assumptions here.

First of all, this post is not hardcore in the least. Actually, it's rather lame. See, I'm knee-deep -- scratch that, I'm fucking xyphoid process-deep in editing Ludlow and I haven't much time to do much of anything except stare at the computer, wondering if what I'm doing is any good. I'll be finished with it early next week, and then... MUA HA HA.

Speak of mua ha ha, here's another screen cap. Oh how provocative.

My point is, I'm totally super big-time sorry that things have been quiet and lame around here, but before you know it I'll be back to watching movies and trying to think of pithy comments just for you. Things won't really heat up- if they ever...you know, actually "heat up"- until it's time for the next Film Club installment, when Burial Ground: The Nights of Terror ushers in AN ENTIRE WEEK of foreign zombie action. Well, foreign to me and my fellow Americans, anyway.

Speaking of zombies and me actually writing stuff, my AMC column this week is all about the many zombie flavors there are available- enough to fetidly fill a Baskin-Robbins.

I'm not sure that entirely makes sense, but anyway.

You can always be my fake cyber-pal if I don't blog enough here to keep up with your absolutely maddening demands. I mean, how would you know that I wanted some pickles today unless you follow me on Twitter? These are the issues that impact my life.

Thanks to everyone who entered the Fango ticket giveaway thingie. Winners have been chosen and notified! And to all those who didn't win or who don't live close enough to warrant an entry into said ticket giveaway thingie, behold the immortal words of Briefcase Woman...

"While those who weren't chosen or who don't live close enough to warrant an entry may feel low right now, let's remember that we're all winners of different flavors, each and every one of us, including me!"

I remember when she said that I should remember that when I didn't win Dancing With the Stars, the Home Edition. She's so inspirational.

So, it's 11:30pm and I'm about to start writing my column for AMC, which is due in the morning. Though I'm kicking myself in the BEhind for starting it so late, it happens every week so I shouldn't be surprised. The topic for this week (ooh, top secret!) has me trawling through my archives in search of the title of a movie I've written about in the past. Said trawling has brought about this Final Girl post, which I'll call Ancient History Regarding the First Time I Was Edited Severely for an Article I Was Asked to Write and How the Results Made Me Want to Kill Myself and No It's Not Something I Wrote for AMC and Yes I Should Be Over It and I Mostly Am Although Reading It Again Brought Up Residual Feelings of "What the FUCK?" and I Probably Shouldn't Even Do This Post But I'm Going to Anyway Because I Feel Like Sharing So There.

The article in question I was asked to write- I stress this because it indicates to me that the editor was at least aware of my writing "style", which is perhaps a bit unconventional as it was born and bred exclusively on this here blog where I am THE BOSS OF ME- was to be a piece about lesbians and Halloween and all the...I don't know, getting the lesbian chocolate in the Halloween peanut butter or whatever. You know what I mean. Like, what horror movies feature lesbos? and that sort of thing. It took me forever to write that damn article, and when I saw the finished product online, well, let's just say that steam came out of my ears. In fact, steam probably came out of most, if not all, of my orifices.

You know, I was going to delete that last sentence because it's really gross and perhaps mostly untrue, but I'm tired and I have a long night ahead of me and at the moment I find it amusing so it stays.

Onward to the worthless past-dredging-uppening! Here are the opening two paragraphs I wrote:

If you’re anything at all like me, then Halloween trumps all as the most wonderful time of the year (that’s right- in your face, Escalator Safety Awareness Week!). There are scary movies on TV ad nauseum, cheap horror DVDs appear in the unlikeliest places (I picked up Salem’s Lot at my grocery store; it was displayed next to the frozen pizzas, and for just a moment I thought maybe I’d somehow passed into The Great Beyond and didn’t know it), and there are rubber-n-cardboard decorations everywhere. Walking past fake cobwebs on my way to find the Q-Tips makes me feel like my local CVS is haunted, I swear. “Mayhaps it was built on an Indian burial ground!” I say to myself, often followed by something like “Ooh look! My shampoo is on sale. Thank you, kind spirits of the underworld!”

Also, if you’re anything like me you can’t eat raisins for too long because after a while you start thinking that they’re not really fruit at all- they’re actually bug bodies- and you get grossed out. That, however, is a discussion for another time. We’re here talk about how you- yes, you!- can make this the most leztastic Halloween ever! I mean, above and beyond bobbing for fanny packs and eating Peppermint Patties until you burst, even.

I mean, it's certainly not the greatest thing ever written (that honor belongs to the novelization of the film 9 to 5, or at least so I thought when I was a wee bonny lass and I saw the paperback in the grocery store and I just had to have it), but it's definitely Final Girl-flavored.

Now...siiiigh...here is what those paragraphs were turned into for publication:

If you’re a horror fan like me, then Halloween trumps all as the most wonderful time of the year. Sure, there are plenty of awful movies out there, but I'm an optimist when it comes to horror films. I simply love a good scare and the adrenaline rush it provides. Even better? There are tons of horror flicks (and a few TV shows) with lesbians in them.

That's why I've put together this handy guide to lesbians and bisexual women in horror.

From the tried and true (Buffy, of course!) to the rare and scary (Robert Wise's The Haunting, for instance) and everything in between (including an almost-forgotten appearance by Amanda Bearse in Fright Night), this guide takes you beyond the lesbian vampire and into the gory world of murdered sorority girls, slumber party massacres and lesbian camping trips gone very, very bad.

So light up your jack-o-lanterns and get your spooky punch ready, because now you can make this the Best. Lesbian. Halloween. Ever.

See? That's what'll get ya steaming orifices. There are words- sentences- WHOLE FUCKING PARAGRAPHS- there that I did not write. "Spooky punch"? Spooky fucking punch? I would never in a million years type those words except for right there where I typed them to make the point that I would never type them.

What's the point of posting this when the article in question is well over a year old and isn't it a little ungracious or unprofessional or something besides? None! There is no point whatsoever! Except that apparently it's a pain that will never ever leave me, much like The Clap. Not that I have The Clap or even know, really, what it is- is it short for chlamydia?- and whether or not it is, in fact, painful. It's just that no one really talks about The Clap anymore, and I think that's a shame.

Yet another shame is the fact that I've now spent half an hour writing this diatribe instead of what I'm supposed to be writing. Damn you, old ire!

Note: posting a picture of this dog in a Halloween costume in a post about an article about the phenomena known as "Lesbian Halloween" does not mean that I'm insinuating that this dog is a lesbian. First, I don't even know if it has a vagina- as Yoda is male, I would assume the dog is also male. Then again, in first grade I dressed up as The Incredible Hulk for Halloween, and the last time I checked (earlier today) I'm a female. Of course, if the dog is a lesbian, that's perfectly fine.

Note the second: I "checked" my "femaleness" by attempting to do some math (I failed miserably) and I spent some time just nagging in a general sort of way. Viva la femme!

When I started Final Girl once upon a Ye Olde Time, my niche was covering slasher movies. I slowly began writing about other subgenres because let's face it, there's only so much you can write about slasher films on a regular basis...and besides, I love horror in all shapes and sizes and flavors. I don't discriminate!

For the next Film Club MEGAEVENT, however, I'm takin' it back to my slasher roots. A positively DREAMY early-80s double bill, folks:

I've written about both films before, but these forthcoming special editions feature footage never before seen by my very eyes, so they're definitely worth revisiting. Friday the 13th is rumored to have a...err...whopping 34 seconds of lost footage added, but My Bloody Valentine promises to be a real treat with upwards of a (for reals) whopping nine minutes of additional footage- largely, all the gore and effects (in)famously excised by the MPAA. Fans (me) have been wanting to see this footage forever, and now all of our (my) dreams have come true. Alright, so not ALL of my dreams. My cat is still unable to scoot around the house like a fat furry hovercraft. I have faith, however, that someday technology will catch up to my deepest desires!

MBV hits this week! THIS WEEK! This very week in which we are living! F13 should be out on February 3rd. I have no idea what the Netflix deal may or may not be- you may, in fact, have to leave your house to seek out a copy when the time comes. Write about one movie, write about both- just make sure you're writing about the new editions. Whatever you choose, this is a primo opportunity to check out some of the finest slasher flicks from the genre's heyday. As President and Supreme Ruler of Final Girl, I simply can't pass them up!

The films: My Bloody Valentine (uncut) and Friday the 13th (uncut)The due date: Monday, February 23

In the interest of public service, this week at AMC I wrote about winter-themed horror movies that don't revolve around Christmas. I mean, did you ever notice how Christmas totally hogs the season? With the Baby Jesus and the frankincense and myrrh (whatever the fuck that is) and the trees and the nog and the presents, it's like...you know, okay, Christmas, we get it. We'll all watch Black Christmas, duh. But what happens when February rolls around and we're still miserably cold? What will we watch then, huh, Christmas? We'll watch Shredder, that's what we'll watch!

It's okay, you don't have to be ashamed if you like Shredder. In fact, there's a coalition of Shredder-likers growing over at AMC. One of us! One of us! Gooble gobble one of us!

Speaking of winter-flavored horror movies, the only way this picture would be better is if that was Erin Moran about to get killed by an angry snowman:

Night Train to Terror (1985) is an anthology film, and we all know how much I love an anthology film. Night Train to Terror is also part of my mega-cool cheapo 50-pack, Drive-In Classics. Therefore, I did not expect Night Train to Terror to be good, but I did expect it to at least make sense. Just a little. A wee little bit. Just one wee little bit. And yet...in all my 63 years on this earth have I ever, ever, EVER, EVARRR seen a film that makes less sense than Night Train to Terror. It makes none. NONE. NOOONNNNNE. While watching it, I thought that (forgive me if you find this offensive) it must have been made by retarded people. As the disjointedness went far beyond that found in your average inept filmmaking, that seemed to be the only logical explanation for what I was seeing.

See, I thought perhaps I'd eaten too much pepper-style Tofurky today or something and that's why the movie was incomprehensible to me; mayhaps the Tofurky gave me brain bloat or something and I wasn't firing on all cylinders. Then I looked up Night Train to Terror on imdb when I set about reviewing the damn thing and I learned a startling fact: the footage for the three segments of Night Train was culled from three feature-length films, one of which was unfinished to begin with. I'd imagine compressing a 90 minute movie into a 20 minute story would be a difficult task for even the most skilled filmmaker; character development and plot intricacies would be the first on the chopping block. But when you've got a crap film to begin with...

Omigod, I love pepper-style Tofurky. It's SO GOOD.

The short of it is, Night Train to Terror is absolutely one of the worst movies I've ever seen in my life. Of course, this doesn't mean I won't recommend it, because I will; my recommendation, however, also comes with several staunch warnings. Don't watch it alone (not because it's scary, obvs, but because it's one of those flicks best suffered with friends). It would best be accompanied with a fine beer, wine, malted, or whatever it is that puts you in the mood; perhaps you can theme out and imbibe some Night Train bum wine as you watch- rot your brain and your gut simultaneously! Lastly, holy crap- this movie goes on way too long and really wears out its welcome. It's so atrocious, however, that you may find a little suffering is time well spent.

So Mr. God and Mr. Satan (seriously) are on a train (no, this isn't a bad joke set up...or is it?) discussing the fates of various people over a glowing white table. The window behind them becomes a magic screen where they can watch the antics of said people as they try to figure out who gets which souls. It all makes perfect sense so far.

The only other passengers on the train, it seems, are...are...sigh...an '80s band/dance troupe who seem to be trapped in a perpetual song loop and neverending music video. Night Train to Terror has the most unexpected opening 2 minutes of any movie I've ever seen; the film just launches into the worst video that ever aired on MTV circa '85 with no explanation whatsoever. In fact, the closest thing we get to an explanation regarding their existence comes 80 minutes later, when one of the dancers says "Wow, it's too bad our bus broke down!" Where were they going? Who the fuck are they? No matter! All I know for sure is, their song will get stuck in your head. Aggressively. I boxed my ears for 37 minutes after the movie ended, and I still couldn't get it out.

Case #1: Harry Billings

Harry (John Phillip Law, who's way too cool to be in this caca) is a mild-mannered salesman by day but at night he dives headlong into "cars, women, and booze". On his wedding night, he inexplicably drives off a bridge, killing his new bride. Harry, however, wakes up strapped to a gurney in a padded cell.

The doctors...umm...hypnotize him so he'll hit the town, dosing young women with eeeevil Alka-Seltzer and dragging them back to the hospital where...umm...they get naked and a sweaty, behaired Richard Moll of television's Night Court molests them in a "tune in Tokyo" fashion.

That was the best I could figure out, anyway, until a narrator chimed in 20 minutes later and let me know that the hospital was in the "kidnap young women, kill young women, and sell their body parts to medical colleges" business. Then I saw Richard Moll of television's Night Court's head collection and it all made perfect sense went on for five more minutes.

Harry decides he no longer wants to be a hypnotized accomplice, so he fights his way out of the hospital...I think. Actually, the segment just ends with no real resolution or explanation. Perhaps if I saw the feature from which it's taken, Marilyn Alive and Behind Bars (1992), I'd find out what happens. Then again, that film was never completed! Then again again, I'd kind of rather kill myself than sit through any more of it so that scenario seems unlikely regardless. I will say this sequence almost made the pain and confusion worth it:

Also, there are quite a few bare boobs on display, so if looking at any old pair is your bag, then "The Case of Harry Billings" might be the segment you've been waiting for all your life.

Back to the choo choo for a dance video interlude! Wow, it's the same song we heard earlier!

Case #2: Gretta Connors

I'm just going to explain this the best that I can.

Young Gretta Connors is a musician who supports her piano playing by selling popcorn at the local carnival. George comes along and sweeps Gretta off her feet by stuffing money down her shirt. They move in together; Gretta says she wants to be a movie star, so George gets her working in the porno business. Glen, a pre-med frat boy, sees one of her films and falls in love. He decides he must have her and seeks Gretta out at one of her recitals. Gretta performs at an old upright piano wearing a blazer and underwear while country music plays.

Gretta and Glen fall in love, proving once and for all that stalking is not creepy whatsoever. George is not happy about this. In an effort to get rid of Glen, he invites the young pair to a meeting of The Death Club, where a disparate group of people stage elaborate Russian Roulette sessions. By "elaborate", I mean...they use a talking electrocution computer, a wrecking ball, and a giant claymation mutant bee in their bids to...I don't know, live on the edge or something.

THRILL! to the claymation bee hovering over the fake hand with the swollen thumb!

WONDER! why George doesn't think of an easier way to split up the couple!

Again, the segment just ends. Glen manages to escape the wrecking ball bullet, the bee bullet, and the talking electrocution computer bullet, but there's absolutely no resolution. Hmm. Maybe if I spend 85 minutes watching The Death Wish Club (1983) I'll find out what happens!

Choo choo music break! This time, the singer breakdances to the same song yet again. Yes, he does The Worm. Duh.

Case #3: Claire Hansen

One plot thread of this segment almost makes sense: an elderly Holocaust survivor sees a young man on television and is convinced that the man is one of his Nazi tormentors. He consults a police detective (Cameron Mitchell, who appears in at least 85% of the films found in these cheapo 50-packs) who insists that it can't be the same man- the dude on TV looks like a 20-year-old, not a 70-year-old. Further investigation leaves the Jewish fella dead and the detective on the trail of the young man, who is actually some sort of demon.

Claire Hansen is a successful surgeon; she's pulled out of surgery one day when the body of a "white Caucasian" arrives in the morgue. Yes, apparently she's a surgeon and a coroner. The "white Caucasian" is the Jewish fella, natch, and this draws Claire into the mystery of the Nazi demon dude. The mystery also pulls in her husband, a Nobel Prize-winning author (a bewigged Richard Moll of television's Night Court yet again). I can't really tell you HOW or WHY they're pulled in, beyond the fact that Richard Moll of television's Night Court is an atheist and Claire is a devout Catholic who has been given "special powers" to battle Satan and his emissaries. That's the best I can do for you- this segment is, perhaps, the most ridiculous (which is REALLY saying something)- so I'll just let the screencaps take over. The segment goes on to feature lightning bolts, explosions, a surprising amount of gore, and ample claymation- and I don't just mean claymation monsters. I mean claymation of the people in the film!

I love the seam in the sky of the beach scene.

Back on the choo choo, our '80s-flavored friends are still playing the same fucking song, still trapped in the same fog-laden music video.

The train then...turns into a model train, although I don't think it's actually supposed to BE a model train. Regardless, it explodes.

God decides to bless the musicians...THE SONG STARTS OVER AGAIN...and the train choo choos off INTO OUTER SPACE.

THIS MOVIE MAKES NO SENSE.

I know what you're thinking: "I must see Night Train to Terror, no matter the cost!" If I came across this review and saw the space train, the claymation, and OH GOD THAT BEE, I'd be thinking the same thing. I'm not going to tell you NOT to see it- on some level, this wretched fuck up of a film is enjoyable. I will say, however, that 90 minutes of wretched fuck up is a very long time, so your tolerance will be tested big time. Going into Night Train knowing it's a confusing, disjointed mess certainly gives you an advantage I did not have, however.